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hey-itsme-alex

Jul 28

starsandfrostcombined

The Shape of Home | Rabbot X Daughter Reader

Summary: Reflecting back on the time your Papa first came home.

Word Count: 11.6k

Warnings: no use of Y/N, depictions of PTSD, unintentional harm to a child

Masterlist

At six fifty-eight in the evening, the day shift and the night shift occupy the emergency department at the same time.

The overlap lasts only a few minutes. It smells like antiseptic, old coffee, and the rain drying on everyone's coats. Monitors keep calling from curtained bays while Dana flags the problem rooms and your fathers stand on opposite sides of the desk pretending their lives don't fit together everywhere else.

Robby is finishing a note when Jack walks in. Your papa carries coffee in one hand and his bag in the other. His gait is almost perfectly even unless someone knows what to watch for.

You know.

His right step lands more deliberately when he's tired. Tonight, he shifts his weight off the prosthesis beneath his scrubs and pauses for half a second before turning toward the desk.

"Long day?" Jack asks. He sets the coffee beside Robby's keyboard.

"Long enough," Robby says. He drinks without checking what's in the cup.

Whitaker, Javadi, Mel, and Santos watch nearby. For weeks, they've mistaken the handoffs and bickering for professional distance. None of them noticed the same travel mug changing hands each evening, the lunches packed in matching containers, or the way Robby always leaves before Jack settles fully into the night shift.

You step through the security doors with your backpack hanging from one shoulder and your school jacket tied around your waist. At fifteen, you're old enough to take the bus from the library to the Pitt. Your fathers still make you text when you leave, when you transfer, and when the hospital comes into view.

"Dad," you call, weaving around an empty stretcher. "You left your phone charger in the car again."

Robby turns toward you. So does Jack.

The silence behind them is immediate.

You hold up the charger. "I meant the one who forgets things in daylight."

"That clarification was rude," Robby says. He takes it from you, then hooks an arm around your shoulders and kisses your hair. You lean into his side for the length of the kiss and squeeze him around the waist before pulling away. "How was the library?"

"Quiet until Papa texted me seven times to make sure I was coming straight here." You pull out your phone and tilt the screen toward Robby. "He sent a map of the route I've taken since seventh grade."

Jack's eyebrows rise. "Pittsburgh is dangerous."

"The bus was full of grandmothers."

"Organized crime has excellent demographic reach."

Santos stares between him and Robby. "Wait. Papa?"

Robby closes his eyes briefly. "Please don't make this weird."

"You're together?" Whitaker asks. His face brightens with the horrified delight of someone realizing he's misunderstood months of evidence.

"They've been together since fire was discovered," you tell him. You pull a container from your backpack. "Also, Papa, you forgot your dinner on the counter. Dad made me turn around for it."

"I was going to buy something here." Jack takes the container. His free hand catches gently at the back of your neck, drawing you close enough for a kiss to your forehead, but Robby catches his wrist before he can pull away.

Robby's fingers settle against Jack's pulse in a touch so practiced it almost looks accidental. His thumb rests there for two beats before it slides to Jack's wrist. "Your leg?"

"Socket's irritating me," Jack answers quietly. "I'll fix it upstairs."

"Text me if the skin's broken. Don't wait until midnight."

"Yes, doctor."

"I mean it, Jack."

"I know." Jack's expression softens. He leans in and presses a brief kiss to Robby's temple. "Go home. Our kid has a chemistry test tomorrow, and she thinks staring at the textbook while watching videos counts as studying."

Behind them, Santos makes a strangled sound.

You barely hear it.

Your attention drops to Jack's right pant leg. Most days, the prosthesis belongs to the background, carrying him through school concerts, parent meetings, Sunday walks, sleepless nights, and countless hospital corridors.

Tonight, the careful angle of his foot and the protective set of Robby's mouth return you to the first time you saw it.

You were six years old. You still believed coming home meant everything frightening was over.

Robby told you Jack was coming home on a Tuesday.

He sat across from you at the kitchen table while rain pressed against the windows. Your grilled cheese had been cut into four squares, and a green crayon lay beside the plate where you'd been practicing the letters in Papa's name.

"Thursday afternoon," he said. He kept both palms flat on the table. "Papa's flight lands at two."

Your feet stopped swinging beneath the chair. "This Thursday?"

"This Thursday. Two more sleeps."

Jack had been gone for eleven months, which felt longer than the part of your life you could remember clearly. You'd crossed days off a paper calendar, taken drawings to the post office, and carried his last voicemail around on Robby's phone until you knew every pause in it.

The weekly video calls had stopped for three weeks after an explosion. Robby had called it an accident because you were five and the whole truth wouldn't fit into words you understood. When the calls returned from a hospital room, Jack smiled too much, tired before you finished showing him your pictures, and the camera never showed anything below his chest.

"For real?" you asked. Your fingers pressed dents into the bread. "He's not going to another hospital first?"

"For real." Robby loosened your grip on the sandwich one finger at a time. "He finished the first part of rehabilitation. That's the work he's been doing to get strong enough to come home. He'll still have appointments here."

You searched his face. Robby looked happy, but it was the careful kind of happy adults wore when they were trying not to scare children.

"Is he still hurt?"

Robby paused, choosing words that were honest without being frightening.

"Yes," he said. His thumb moved across your knuckles. "Papa got hurt very badly. The doctors had to take off the lower part of his right leg so the rest of him could heal."

You looked under the table as if the missing limb might be there.

"His whole leg?"

"From below his knee."

Your hand crept down to your own shin. You squeezed it through your pajama pants. "Did he say they could?"

Robby's mouth pulled tight. "Papa was asleep from his injuries when the surgeons had to decide. They did it to keep him alive."

The kitchen seemed to move farther away from you. Rainwater crawled down the glass, making the backyard bend and wobble.

"Does he know they did it?"

"He knows." Robby moved from his chair and crouched beside yours. His knees cracked, and the ordinary sound made the conversation feel even stranger. "He's got a prosthetic leg now. It's a special leg made to help him stand and walk. He's also bringing crutches because he's still learning how to use it."

"Will it grow back?"

"No, honey."

The answer landed with the weight of a door closing. You'd seen a lizard grow a tail back in a library book. You couldn't understand why people were worse at healing than lizards.

You pulled your hand from his and folded both arms over your stomach. "You said he was coming home all better."

"I said he was getting stronger." Robby stayed beside your chair. His eyes shone, though his voice remained steady. "I'm sorry if it sounded like I meant everything would be fixed. I wish I could make those mean the same thing."

"Can he still be Papa?"

Robby's face broke then. He gathered you against his chest and held the back of your head. You burrowed beneath his chin, and he rocked you once in his arms before pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Yes," he whispered into your hair. "He'll always be Papa. He might get tired quickly. Loud noises might scare him before he knows he's safe. Sometimes he might want us close, and sometimes he might need quiet. None of that changes how much he loves you."

You clutched his shirt. "What if the new leg scares me?"

"Then you can tell us." Robby wiped beneath your eyes with his thumbs. "You can be surprised or sad. You can look away and try again later. Papa doesn't need you to do this perfectly. He just needs you to be his kid."

"Can I still sit on his shoulders?"

Robby's face tightened before he smiled. "Maybe not right away. You can ask him when he's ready."

You considered that, then pushed one cold square of grilled cheese toward him. "You can have this one because you're sad."

Robby laughed into a sound that shook. He took a bite because you were watching.

The next two days made the house unfamiliar.

Robby rolled up the hallway rug, moved the coffee table against the wall, and installed a rail beside the front steps. He put a chair in the shower, cleared the shoes from the entryway, and moved the basket of your toys out of the path between the couch and the stairs.

You followed him from room to room with your stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm and growing resentment beneath the other. Every change felt like proof that a stranger was coming instead of Papa.

"Papa likes that rug," you said as Robby carried it toward the basement.

"The edge catches shoes and crutches."

"It never caught his shoes before."

"He didn't use crutches before."

You hated the answer because it was true. You kicked at the pale rectangle left behind on the floor, then burst into tears when dust caught on your sock.

Robby stopped at the basement door. His grip tightened around the rolled fabric.

"Before can't be the rule for everything," he said too sharply. He lowered the rug. "I'm sorry."

You stared at the blank strip of floor the rug had covered. "It doesn't look like our house."

Robby sat on the bottom step and drew you between his knees. Sawdust clung to his hair from drilling the rail into place. You picked a curl clean with careful fingers. He caught your hand and kissed your dusty knuckles before folding both arms around your middle. "I know. Papa needs room to find his balance. We can put some things back when he's ready."

"What if he hates it?"

"He probably will." Robby rubbed both hands down his face. "He hates anyone guessing that he might need help before he asks."

"You do too."

"That's an outrageous accusation." His tired smile appeared when you leaned into him. "It's also accurate."

You held the stuffed rabbit toward him. "She can sleep by the stairs so Papa won't fall."

"That might become another thing to trip over." Robby softened the refusal by kissing one floppy ear. "How about she waits on the couch and supervises?"

You placed the rabbit upright on the couch with strict instructions to watch the front door. By Thursday morning, you'd moved her three times because no place in the altered room looked safe enough.

On Thursday, you waited at the airport between Robby's knees, his hands resting on your shoulders. You held a folded sheet of construction paper that said WALCOM HOME PAPA in purple marker. Robby had offered to correct it. You'd told him Papa would know what it meant.

People came through the security doors in uneven waves. Suitcase wheels rattled over the floor, and every opening brought a gust of cold air. Each time a man in a dark jacket appeared, your heart kicked against your ribs before disappointment made it drop again.

"What if he missed the plane?" you asked for the fourth time.

"He didn't."

"What if they put him on the wrong one?"

"Papa can navigate a deployment. He can find Pittsburgh."

You didn't know what navigate meant, but Robby's hand was shaking on your shoulder, so you stopped asking.

Then Jack appeared.

He wore jeans and a dark jacket, with a duffel over one shoulder. Metal forearm crutches clicked in a careful rhythm. His right pant leg covered a shoe that looked almost ordinary, though the knee above it moved stiffly. He looked thinner than he had on the screen, and there were new gray threads near his temples.

The welcome sign slipped from your fingers. You ran three steps.

Then you stopped.

Jack stopped too.

His face emptied around your hesitation. For one terrible second, you thought stopping had made him sorry to see you.

Robby's hands left your shoulders. He didn't push you forward.

Jack lowered his duffel. "Hey, bug."

His voice was the same.

That hurt more than if it had changed.

Your eyes fixed on the crutches and the careful placement of his feet. "Where do I hug you?"

Jack's breath caught. He shifted both crutches to one side and opened an arm.

"Same place you always did," he said.

You crossed the distance more slowly than you'd started and wrapped yourself around his middle. Jack staggered once. One crutch scraped sideways, and Robby moved, but Jack found his balance before either of them touched him.

His arm closed around you hard enough to lift your heels. He smelled like laundry soap, airport air, and something medicinal. You pressed your face into the zipper of his jacket so you wouldn't have to look down.

"You're tall," Jack murmured against your hair.

"You're skinny," you said into his jacket.

A startled laugh broke out of him. It turned into a sound closer to a sob. His fingers spread protectively across the back of your head, and his chest shook against your cheek.

"I made you a sign," you said because you didn't know what to do when a grown-up cried.

"I saw it." Jack swallowed hard. "Best spelling I've ever seen."

Robby stepped in beside you. He touched Jack's cheek first, giving him time to see the movement. Then he kissed him.

The kiss was brief and trembling. Jack caught the front of Robby's coat and kept him close when it ended. He pressed his forehead against Robby's while Robby's free hand settled at his waist, not holding him up, only letting him know support was there. You stayed tucked against Jack's middle, surrounded by both of them.

"You moved the rug, didn't you?" Jack asked.

Robby's laugh carried a crack through the middle. "Hello to you too."

"Michael."

"Yes, I moved the rug."

"Traitor."

Jack kept one arm around you while Robby took the duffel. You bent to retrieve your sign, and Jack waited instead of hurrying you. Both of your fathers were close enough to touch again.

You thought that would make the fear disappear.

It followed you home instead.

In the car, Jack sat in the passenger seat with both crutches angled between his knees. You watched the back of his head from your booster seat. Every few minutes, he reached for Robby's hand near the gearshift, held it briefly, and let go before the next turn. At a red light, he reached back between the seats without looking. You placed your whole hand around two of his fingers, and he held on until the light changed.

When someone honked behind them, Jack ducked before catching himself. Robby lowered the radio without commenting. You stared out your window and pretended you hadn't seen.

Jack paused at the front steps. The new rail gleamed beside him.

"Subtle," he said. His mouth flattened as he looked at Robby.

Robby set down the bags. "The old rail shook."

"Are you two fighting?" you asked from the doorway.

Both men looked at you.

"No," Jack said. He set one crutch on the first step. "Your daddy is showing affection through unsolicited construction."

Robby stayed close without touching him. "Your papa is expressing gratitude through being unbearable."

Jack planted both crutches, lifted his left foot, then brought the prosthetic one up to meet it. He climbed one step, then another. Sweat appeared along his hairline by the time he reached you, though there were only four steps.

You held the door open with both hands. "I like the rail. It's shiny."

"Betrayed by my entire family," Jack muttered. He kissed the top of your head as he passed.

The first hour at home was filled with things that almost felt normal. Jack inspected the refrigerator, complained that Robby had bought the wrong coffee, and found the picture you'd taped beside his bed months earlier. Then he sat through dinner without eating much and flinched when your fork struck the plate.

That evening, after you were caught staring at the shape beneath his jeans for the fifth time, he asked whether you wanted to see the prosthesis.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed and rolled his jeans above his right knee. His crutches rested within reach against the nightstand. Robby sat on the floor beside you so he wouldn't tower over either of you.

Jack's fingers paused on the fabric.

"You don't have to look tonight," he said. He watched you from beneath lowered brows. "You can change your mind at any point."

You sat in the doorway with Robby's hand around yours and your stuffed rabbit pinned against your ribs. "Can you change your mind?"

Jack glanced at the floor. "About taking it off? Yes. About the leg being gone? No."

He lifted the edge of the suspension sleeve, released the prosthesis, and eased his residual limb out of the socket. Air entered with a soft sound that made you jump.

The limb ended below his knee in a shape your mind resisted. A thin liner covered the skin, and red pressure marks circled the widest part. You knew Robby had explained it, but the sight still made the room feel crooked.

Your grip tightened around Robby's fingers.

Jack set the prosthesis beside him. It stood upright with the empty socket open, more like a piece of equipment than a missing piece of a person.

"Does that hurt?" you asked.

"The red part does a little." Jack rubbed his palm above the irritated skin. "The rest gets sore when I wear it too long. That's why Daddy keeps asking me about it."

"He asks everybody if they hurt."

"Occupational hazard," Jack said.

"Can you feel the fake foot?"

"No. I can feel pressure through the socket, but if you touch the foot, I won't feel it."

You moved one small step closer. "Can I touch it?"

Jack nodded. "Gently."

You touched one finger to the smooth curve of the prosthetic ankle. It was cooler than skin and completely still beneath your fingertip.

"It doesn't look like a robot leg," you said.

"I requested lasers." Jack leaned back on his hands. "Insurance was unreasonable."

You looked up sharply. "Really?"

"No," Robby said before Jack could answer.

"Your daddy hates imagination," Jack told you.

You traced the edge of the shoe. "Are you still you when you're not wearing it?"

The humor left his face.

Robby squeezed your hand, but Jack answered.

"I'm trying to remember who I am," he said.

You climbed beside him, careful not to touch his limb. The mattress dipped under your knees, and Jack watched with uncertainty, tightening his eyes until you settled near his left side.

"Daddy said I could be bad at this," you told him. Your fingers worried one of the rabbit's ears. "I looked away before."

Robby made a quiet protesting sound.

"He said you didn't need perfect."

Jack looked at Robby over your head. Something passed between them that you couldn't yet name. Robby shifted closer until one knee rested against yours and covered your joined hands with his.

"He's right," Jack said. He placed an arm around your shoulders only after you leaned against him. "I looked away the first time too. None of us is going to be good at this right away."

You rested the stuffed rabbit in his lap. "She can practice too."

Jack touched two fingers to the rabbit's head. "Good. I could use the backup."

The first week taught you how many ways a person could be home and still seem far away.

Jack chose the chair that faced the front and back doors. He checked the lock before breakfast, after lunch, and again while Robby read your bedtime story. When a helicopter passed low enough to rattle the window, he dropped the glass in his hand and stared at the ceiling until the sound faded.

The glass didn't break. Water spread across the table and soaked the paper crown you'd been coloring for your stuffed rabbit.

"Papa," you complained. You lifted the dripping page by one corner. "You ruined her crown."

Jack looked down as if he'd only just noticed the water. His breathing was too fast, and one hand gripped the edge of the table.

"I'm sorry, bug." He reached for a towel, then stopped when the helicopter circled somewhere beyond the house. "I'll make her another one."

Robby came in from the hall. His eyes moved from the window to Jack and then to the paper in your hands.

"I've got the water," he said. He gave Jack room to decide whether the words were an offer or an instruction. "Can you take her to find another sheet of paper?"

Jack stood too quickly. His right knee stayed stiff above the socket, and the table jumped when his hip struck it.

You covered the rabbit's ears. "She's having a bad day."

"So am I," Jack muttered.

He heard himself and closed his eyes.

"That's not your fault," he said more gently. He crouched with one hand braced against the chair. "Do you think she'd accept a gold crown as compensation?"

You considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "Only if it has purple jewels."

"Extortion runs in the family."

At the desk upstairs, he drew uneven jewels while you colored them in. His hand trembled whenever the helicopter passed again, but he stayed beside you until the crown was finished. He balanced it on your head first, declared you the royal inspector, and kissed your forehead when you approved it for the rabbit. When Robby brought up three mugs of cocoa, he rested his palm against Jack's shoulder. Jack turned his face into the touch for one quiet second before taking his mug.

Nights were harder.

Jack rarely slept longer than two hours. You heard the soft knock of his crutches after midnight and found him at the kitchen table in the dark. Sometimes Robby sat across from him, their hands linked between two cold mugs. Sometimes Jack stared at the back door alone, fully dressed as though someone might order him to leave.

On the third night, you dragged your blanket down the stairs and climbed into the chair beside him.

"You're supposed to be asleep," Jack whispered. He didn't turn on the light.

"So are you."

"I'm the adult."

"Daddy says adults need sleep too."

Jack glanced toward the stairs. "Your daddy has filled your head with propaganda."

You didn't know what propaganda was. You tucked the corner of your blanket over his left knee anyway. Jack rested his hand over the fabric and kept watch until Robby found both of you. Robby kissed the top of your head, then cupped Jack's cheek only after Jack leaned toward him. He sat on Jack's other side, and the three of you shared one blanket until your eyes closed.

During the day, he treated recovery like an assignment he could pass by doing every part perfectly. He stretched before breakfast, practiced stairs until sweat soaked his shirt, and counted each step around the block beneath his breath. If the socket pinched, he walked farther. If his residual limb shook, he added another exercise.

Robby responded by watching more closely.

Jack responded to being watched by becoming furious.

"Stop studying me," he snapped one afternoon.

Robby froze beside the kitchen counter with a bowl of apple slices in his hands. "You're favoring your left side."

"I'm aware of how I walk."

"Your socket's loose. You're going to damage the skin."

"I've got a rehabilitation team."

"You also have a husband who can see blood through the liner."

You stopped halfway down the stairs. A kindergarten worksheet was tucked beneath your arm, covered in rows of letters that leaned in every direction.

Jack saw you first. His anger vanished so quickly that it frightened you more than the shouting had.

"Hey, bug." He shifted his body to hide his right leg. "Why don't you take your crayons upstairs and pick a book? Daddy or I'll come read it in a minute."

"Are you mad?"

"Not at you." Jack gripped the back of a chair. "Never at you."

You climbed back upstairs because both of them were waiting for you to obey. You left your bedroom door open and sat on the rug with the book in your lap, listening to their voices move below you.

"I can't turn it off," Robby said.

"I don't need an attending at home," Jack answered. The words sounded scraped raw. "I need my husband."

The refrigerator opened and closed. Then the house went quiet.

"I don't know how to be one without trying to keep you alive," Robby said.

Jack's crutches shifted against the floor. "Start by believing I'm here."

You didn't understand why Daddy wanting Papa alive could make Papa angry. You only understood that neither of them came upstairs for a long time.

When Jack finally appeared, he'd changed into shorts and removed the prosthesis. A fresh bandage covered a rubbed place along his limb. Robby followed with an ice pack and the bowl of apple slices.

"We both promised a story," Robby said. He sat on one side of you and offered Jack the ice pack instead of pressing it into his hands.

Jack accepted it. "Then we're both staying."

They read one page at a time, passing the book across your lap. Jack's voice still sounded tired. Robby's shoulder stayed pressed against his. He kissed the crown of your head when it was his turn to read and brushed another kiss against Jack's temple before passing the book back. By the end, your head had fallen against Jack's chest, and his fingers had curled through Robby's.

It was a small peace. Your family built many of them before you learned what they were called.

The phantom pain came three nights later.

A strangled sound woke you. You carried your rabbit downstairs by one ear and found Jack on the couch, his prosthesis tipped against the coffee table. Both hands were locked around the end of his residual limb.

"Papa?" You hovered near the final stair.

Jack's head lifted. Sweat shone across his forehead. "Go back to bed, bug."

"What's wrong?"

"My foot hurts."

You looked at the prosthetic foot on the floor. "That one?"

"No." He dragged a breath through his teeth. "The other one."

You stared at the empty space below his knee. "But it isn't there."

"I know."

Fear turned quickly into frustration. You squeezed the rabbit against your stomach. "Then how can it hurt?"

"I don't know how to explain it right now." Jack bent over his limb as another wave tightened his face. "Please get Daddy."

Robby was already coming down the stairs in bare feet, his glasses crooked and one hand sliding along the wall.

"Phantom pain?" he asked.

Jack nodded once.

Robby stopped beside you instead of rushing forward. "What do you need?"

"A new nervous system."

"I didn't bring one home from work." Robby crouched several feet from the couch. "Medication, compression, massage, or space?"

"Compression." Jack's eyes squeezed shut. "And for both of you to stop looking terrified."

Robby retrieved the compression sock and Jack's medication. He placed both within reach, then waited until Jack held out a hand. Jack worked the sock over his limb with shaking fingers while Robby counted the minutes since his last dose.

You crept closer and set your stuffed rabbit near Jack's left thigh.

"She helps when my ear hurts," you said.

Jack's face tightened for a reason that wasn't pain. "Then I'd better borrow her."

He rested his palm on the rabbit's flattened head. Robby tucked a blanket around his waist without touching the painful limb.

"Your brain remembers your foot?" you asked.

"Something like that." Jack took a careful breath. "My brain has a map of my whole body. It hasn't drawn a new map yet, so sometimes it sends pain to a foot that isn't there."

You pictured the paper maps in your classroom with roads drawn in bright colors. "Can you erase it?"

"The doctors are trying to help me change it. It might take a while."

"Can you tell your brain you're home?"

Jack stared at you.

Robby lowered his face and pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

"I'm working on that too," Jack said. His voice wavered. "My brain's being stubborn."

"Daddy says you are."

"Your daddy says a lot when he thinks I'm not listening."

"You're always listening," Robby said. He settled on the couch only after Jack made room. "That's part of the problem."

Jack leaned against Robby's shoulder. You climbed into the armchair and watched until the lines beside Jack's mouth softened. When he opened one hand toward you, you climbed down and tucked your fingers into his. Robby drew the blanket around all three of you, kissed Jack's damp temple, and rested his cheek against your hair. You still didn't understand how an empty place could hurt. You decided brains were worse at maps than kindergarteners.

Two weeks after Jack came home, a baking sheet hit the kitchen floor.

It was early evening, almost dark outside. Rain tapped the windows while Robby stood at the stove reheating soup. You sat at the kitchen table with your stuffed rabbit in your lap, and construction paper spread around your elbows, building a hospital where the rabbit could recover from a serious case of a torn ear.

Jack sat at the far end of the table sorting the mail. His prosthesis had been bothering him all afternoon, and one crutch rested against the chair within reach. Every few minutes, he pressed a thumb into the muscle above his right knee and tried to hide the movement.

"She needs a bed," you announced. You held up a folded piece of purple paper. "And a machine that beeps."

"No beeping machines at home," Jack said. He turned an envelope over without opening it. "That's my professional recommendation."

"She's very sick."

"Then she needs quiet and excellent snacks."

Robby glanced back from the stove. On his way to the counter, he bent to kiss your hair, then pressed another quick kiss to Jack's shoulder. "Listen to Papa. He's an expert in being difficult during recovery."

Jack caught Robby's wrist before he could move away and brushed his mouth over his knuckles. Then he threw a grocery-store flyer at him. It landed short and slid beneath the table.

You laughed. For a few seconds, the kitchen felt ordinary.

Robby reached above the counter for a bowl. The drying rack shifted when his sleeve brushed it. A baking sheet balanced along the back edge slid free, clipped the counter, and landed flat on the tile.

The crack swallowed every other sound in the room.

Jack moved before you understood that anything had happened.

His chair scraped backward. One hand seized your upper arm while the other caught the back of your shirt. He pulled you from the chair so hard that the table struck your hip. Your shoulder hit a drawer handle on the way down, then Jack dragged you behind the island and folded his body over yours.

The tile knocked the breath out of you. Purple paper scattered beneath the table. Your rabbit landed on her side near the refrigerator.

"Down!" Jack shouted. His voice didn't sound like Papa's. "Stay down. Don't move."

His prosthetic foot jammed against the cabinet base. The force twisted his knee, but he didn't seem to feel it. His fingers dug into your arm while his gaze jumped between the windows and the doorway.

For one confused second, you waited for the bad thing he'd seen to enter the kitchen.

Nothing did.

"Papa, stop." Your cheek pressed against the cold tile. "I don't like it."

The refrigerator motor clicked on.

Jack flattened you harder. Your shirt pulling against your shoulder, scraping beneath your sleeve.

"Contact left," he said through clenched teeth. "Keep your head down."

You didn't know what contact meant. You only knew you couldn't move your arm and Papa was hurting you.

"Let go!" You kicked against the floor and tried to twist free. "Daddy!"

Jack's hand locked tighter.

Robby turned around and stopped so suddenly that his sock slid on the tile. He saw the fallen sheet, Jack's abandoned crutch, the prosthetic foot trapped against the cabinet, and your face beneath Jack's shoulder.

The wooden spoon slipped from his hand. He didn't look at it when it struck the floor.

"Jack." Robby raised both hands. His voice was low, but you heard the fear he was trying to hide. "Look at me. You're in our kitchen."

Jack turned toward him without seeing him. Sweat ran from his temple. His eyes were wide and empty in a way you'd never seen before.

"Where's the exit?" he rasped. "I can't see the exit."

"It's behind me." Robby lowered himself one careful inch at a time. "There's no smoke. There's no fire. It's raining outside. You're in Pittsburgh with me."

Jack's gaze jumped to the window. His body remained heavy over yours.

"She's exposed," he said. "Get her down."

"She's already down." Robby's eyes flicked to the hand around your arm. "You're covering her. I need you to loosen your fingers so I can move her."

"No."

"Jack, listen to my voice. That's our daughter. She's six years old, and she's scared."

You started crying harder when Robby said it. You wanted him to stop talking and pull Jack away. You couldn't understand why he stayed across the kitchen with his hands in the air.

"Daddy, make him stop!"

Pain crossed Robby's face. He kept his voice steady. "I promise, honey. I'm right here."

Jack looked down at the sound of your crying. His eyes caught on your hair beneath his hand, then on your sleeve twisted in his fist. Confusion pulled at his face.

"Bug?"

His fingers opened.

You didn't wait for Robby to reach you.

You crawled out from beneath Jack's arm, slipped on the scattered paper, and struck your knee against the table leg. Robby called your name, but Jack tried to stand at the same moment.

The prosthetic foot stayed wedged beneath the cabinet. Jack's knee folded, and his shoulder slammed into the cupboard doors. Dishes rattled above him.

"Get it off." He clawed at the suspension sleeve. His breaths came too quickly for the words. "Michael, get it off me. Get it off."

Robby lunged and caught him before his head hit the tile.

You saw Robby's arms close around Jack.

Then you ran.

Your shoulder burned as you crossed the hall. You didn't go upstairs because Jack knew your bedroom. You squeezed into the coat closet instead, pushed past hanging jackets, and pulled the door almost closed behind you.

Darkness folded around you.

You crouched behind Robby's winter boots with both hands over your mouth. One sleeve felt wet against your shoulder. Your arm throbbed where Jack's fingers had been, but you were too afraid of making noise to look.

From the kitchen, Jack shouted once. The sound broke into a sob.

Inside the closet, you heard Robby's voice drop lower.

"It's caught beneath the cabinet. I've got to release it. Don't pull, Jack. You'll tear your skin."

Metal scraped across the tile. Jack swore and then cried out.

"It's off," Robby said. "Your prosthesis is off. Put your hand on the floor. Feel the tile."

"I hurt her."

Jack said the words so clearly that you pressed both hands more tightly over your mouth.

"I know." Robby's voice cracked before it steadied. "She ran out of the kitchen. I saw her moving. She's away from the noise."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know yet. I can't leave you while you're falling."

"Go find her."

"I'm going to. First, I need you to stay with me."

Something struck the cabinet. Once. Twice.

"Jack, don't." Robby's words sharpened. "Give me your hands."

"I put my hands on her." Jack sounded as though he were choking. "She told me to stop. I heard her, Michael. I heard her, and I couldn't stop."

"Give me your hands."

"Get away from me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

A broken sound tore through the kitchen. You curled tighter behind the boots and pulled one of Robby's heavy coats over your head.

You couldn't see Jack fold against him. You could hear it in the rustle of clothes and the hard knock of Robby's knee hitting the floor.

"I brought it home," Jack sobbed. "I brought it into the house. I hurt my kid."

"You came home to us." Robby's breathing was loud and measured. "You're in our kitchen. There's rain at the windows. My hands are on yours. Stay with me."

"Don't tell me I'm safe."

"Then don't be safe yet. Be here."

Jack's crying grew louder.

You'd heard adults cry before. Robby had cried when he thought you were asleep during the weeks Jack's video calls stopped. Jack had cried at the airport with his arm around you. This sounded different. His breaths tore out of him, sharp and uneven, and every one carried your name.

Robby kept answering.

"She's in the house."

"I saw her run."

"I'll find her."

"Breathe first."

You understood none of it.

Papa had grabbed you. Papa had looked at you without knowing you. Daddy was holding him instead of coming to find you.

You pressed your face into the wool coat until the fabric scratched your nose. The closet smelled like winter, dust, and Robby's aftershave. You tried to make yourself so small that no one could pull you out.

The kitchen slowly grew quieter.

Robby asked Jack to name things. Jack couldn't do it at first. He said words you didn't recognize, then your name again. Eventually, he managed, "Rain. Refrigerator. Green cabinets."

"Good," Robby murmured. "One more."

There was a long pause.

"You," Jack whispered.

"That's right. I'm here."

More time passed. Your legs began to ache from crouching, but moving felt impossible.

At last, Robby called your name from the kitchen.

You didn't answer.

He called again from the hall. His footsteps passed the closet and went upstairs. You heard your bedroom door open, the bathroom cabinet click, and the squeak of the floorboard beside your bed.

"Honey?" His voice carried down the stairs. "It's Daddy. You're not in trouble. I only need to know where you are."

You bit the inside of your cheek and stayed silent.

Robby came down more quickly. He checked the living room and opened the basement door. Jack said something from the kitchen that you couldn't hear.

"Stay there," Robby answered. "I'll find her."

The closet door shifted when Robby walked past it again. Light moved through the narrow opening and found a small red smear near the inside edge where your sleeve had brushed the paint.

His footsteps stopped.

He didn't pull the door open.

"I think I found you," he said from the other side. His voice was gentler now. "Can I sit here?"

You didn't answer, but you didn't push the door closed either.

Robby lowered himself to the hallway floor. You could see one knee and his hand resting palm-up near the opening.

"Papa's in the kitchen," he said. "His leg's off, and he's sitting on the floor. He isn't coming over here."

"Don't let him."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Robby's hand curled once against the floor. "I won't."

"Ever."

He took a slow breath. "He won't come near you until you say he can."

You pulled the coat away from your face. "You didn't come."

"No." Robby didn't try to explain immediately. "I didn't. I'm sorry."

"I called you."

"I heard you."

"Then why didn't you make him stop?"

Robby rubbed his thumb against the side of his finger. "I was trying to. Papa's brain thought he was back somewhere dangerous. He couldn't see the kitchen the way we could. I had to use my voice carefully so he wouldn't hold you tighter."

"But he was in the kitchen."

"I know."

"I was right there."

"You were." Robby's voice grew rough. "You were right there, and you needed him to know you."

You stared at his open hand. "Why did you hug him?"

"Because when you got away, Papa fell. His leg was trapped, and his brain still didn't know where he was. He was hitting himself. I had to keep him from getting hurt worse."

"I got hurt worse."

"You did." Robby shifted closer to the door, though he didn't cross it. "I saw your shoulder hit the drawer. I wanted to come after you. I chose to make sure Papa couldn't hurt himself or anybody else before I left him. That was my job as the grown-up, but it meant you were scared and alone. I'm so sorry you had to wait for me."

Your bottom lip trembled. "Do you like him more?"

Robby's face crumpled.

"No, honey." He put his other hand over his mouth for a moment. "I don't love either of you more. Papa needed my hands first because his body wasn't under his control. You needed me too. I couldn't be in both places, and I hate that."

You looked toward the strip of light under the closet door. "He was mean."

"He scared you and hurt you."

"Why?"

"Because something scared him so much before he came home that his brain sometimes thinks it's happening again." Robby kept the words simple, but they still didn't make sense. "The loud noise made him think you were in danger. He tried to protect you, but he couldn't see that he was the one hurting you."

"That's stupid."

"It doesn't make sense from where you're sitting." Robby nodded slowly. "It didn't feel like protection. It felt scary."

"I don't want his brain to do that."

"Neither do I. Neither does Papa. We're going to get more help so it doesn't happen this way again."

Your shoulder throbbed beneath the wet fabric. You moved your arm and gasped.

Robby's attention sharpened. "Will you let me look at where you're hurt?"

You backed farther into the coats. "I'm not coming out."

"You don't have to." He glanced toward the kitchen. "I'll get my bag and come back. Papa's staying where he is."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He stood only after you nodded. His footsteps moved into the kitchen. Jack's voice came quietly.

"Is she hurt?"

"Her shoulder's bleeding. She's scared, and she doesn't want you near her."

The silence that followed seemed to fill the whole house.

"Okay," Jack said at last. The word broke in the middle. "Tell her I won't move."

Robby returned with his medical bag, a clean washcloth, and your blue cup filled with water. He opened the closet door only wide enough to sit in the gap.

"Can I turn on the hall light?"

You shook your head.

"All right." He set the bag beside his knee. "Can I move Daddy's coat off your head so I can see you?"

This time, you nodded.

He peeled the heavy wool away and laid it across the boots. His expression changed when he saw the blood on your sleeve, but his hands stayed careful.

"I'm going to touch your wrist first," he said. "Then I'll help you slide your arm out of the sleeve. Tell me if you need me to stop."

You gripped the blue cup with your other hand while he eased the fabric down. The scrape along your shoulder was shallow, but it stretched several inches. Purple marks were already gathering where Jack's fingers had held your upper arm.

Robby's jaw tightened.

"Is it broken?" you whispered.

"I don't think so. I want you to move your fingers for me."

You did.

"Now your wrist. Good. Can you bend your elbow?"

The movement pulled at your shoulder. You whimpered and stopped.

"That's enough." Robby rested your arm across your lap. "I don't feel anything broken. You've got a scrape and some deep bruises. Cleaning the scrape will sting."

"I don't want it to."

"I know." He opened an antiseptic wipe. "You can squeeze my hand, or you can tell me a story while I do it."

You put the cup down and grabbed two of his fingers.

Robby cleaned the wound in small sections. Each touch burned, and you cried into the sleeve of his shirt when he leaned close enough. He stopped whenever you pulled away and waited until you told him to keep going.

When the bandage was finally in place, he wrapped a cold pack in the washcloth and held it near your arm.

"Do you want to hold this, or do you want me to?"

"You."

Robby pressed it gently against the bruises. You leaned into his chest, still hidden behind the closet door, and listened to his heartbeat. He kissed your hair again and again, each one slow enough that you could feel him making sure you were really there.

"Can we make Papa leave?" you asked.

Robby closed his eyes above your head. "Papa's staying in the living room with me tonight. You can sleep in my room, and I'll sit outside the door. He won't come upstairs."

"I want you in the room."

"Then I'll be in the room."

"What if he gets scary again?"

"I'll keep you safe." Robby's arm tightened around you. "Tomorrow, Papa's calling his doctor and therapist. We're going to make a plan. Your part of that plan will be very simple. If Papa gets confused or scary, you run somewhere safe and call for me. You don't have to talk him better."

You frowned against his shirt. "You talked him better."

"That's a grown-up job. It isn't yours."

Robby carried you out of the closet because your legs had gone numb. You hid your face against his shoulder as he passed the kitchen.

Jack sat against the cabinets with his residual limb covered by a blanket. The prosthesis lay near the stove, and the fallen baking sheet had been pushed beneath the table. His face was swollen from crying. He held both palms open on the floor where you could see them.

He didn't reach for you.

"I'm sorry, bug," he said. His voice barely carried across the room. "You didn't do anything wrong. I scared you, and I hurt you."

You tightened both arms around Robby's neck.

"Don't call me bug."

Jack flinched as if you'd struck him. "Okay."

Robby didn't tell you to be kind. He carried you upstairs.

That night, you slept in Robby and Jack's bed with Robby sitting against the headboard beside you. Each time a pipe clicked, or the rain struck the window harder, your eyes opened.

"Is he coming?" you whispered.

"No." Robby checked the hallway and returned to the bed. "Papa's on the couch."

"Are you going to leave?"

"Not until you're ready."

You pressed your face into his ribs, and he kissed your forehead whenever your breathing caught. You finally fell asleep with two fingers locked around his. When you woke before dawn, he'd shifted lower against the pillows, but his hand was still in yours.

The next morning, the house smelled faintly of burned toast. Jack had tried to make breakfast from the living room and forgotten the bread in the toaster when a truck backfired outside. Robby unplugged it without comment.

Jack sat on the couch without his prosthesis. He looked smaller than he had the day before, his crutches laid flat on the floor so they couldn't fall and frighten you.

While Robby changed the bandage on your shoulder, Jack called his therapist. His voice shook as he described the baking sheet, the way he'd grabbed you, and how long it had taken him to let go. He didn't call it an accident and didn't soften the part where he'd hurt you.

"I need an urgent appointment," he said. His eyes stayed on the carpet. "And we need a safety plan for my daughter."

You didn't know what urgent meant. You knew he was telling someone what he'd done instead of hiding it.

Before Robby drove him to the appointment, Jack stopped at the far end of the hall.

"Can I say goodbye from here?" he asked. His hands stayed at his sides.

You looked at Robby.

"You can say no," Robby told you. He taped the final edge of your bandage. "You can also decide how close is close enough."

You didn't hold out your hand. You couldn't imagine touching Jack yet.

"You can say it there," you whispered.

Jack swallowed. "Goodbye. I'll come back with Daddy, and I won't come near you unless you ask."

"Okay."

It wasn't forgiveness. It was all you could give him that morning.

Recovery became less private after that.

There were more therapy appointments, different medication, changes to Jack's rehabilitation schedule, and family sessions in a room with soft chairs that made loud noises when anyone moved.

At the first family session, you sat in Robby's lap with your bandaged shoulder turned inward. He kept one arm secure around your middle and rested his cheek against your hair whenever the room felt too large. Jack chose a chair across the room. He'd left the prosthesis at home because the skin at the end of his limb had torn during the episode, and his wheelchair allowed him to keep both hands visible in his lap.

The therapist asked whether you wanted to tell Jack what you remembered.

You shook your head.

"That's all right," Jack said. His fingers tightened together. "You don't owe me the story. I remember enough."

You looked at the floor. "You didn't remember me."

Jack went very still.

"No," he said. He didn't ask Robby to rescue him from the answer. "Not the way I should've."

"Did you think I was somebody bad?"

"I didn't think you were bad." He pushed a trembling breath out through his nose. "I thought a bad thing was happening around us. My brain got stuck in an old place."

"Your eyes were open."

"They were."

"Then you should've seen me."

Jack's mouth pulled tight. "You're right. You were there, and I should've seen you."

The therapist didn't turn the conversation into a lesson before you were ready. She let you stay angry. She let Jack sit with what his actions had done without making you comfort him.

Robby drew the safety plan in purple marker because you'd refused the black one. He put three rules on a card and read them aloud.

"Get somewhere safe," he said, tapping the first line. "Find Daddy or another grown-up. You don't have to fix Papa."

You traced the last sentence with one finger. "What if you're at work?"

"Then Papa won't be alone with you until his treatment team says it's safe and all three of us agree." Robby slid the card into your backpack. "For now, I'm here."

Jack's face tightened, but he nodded. "That's the rule."

Grounding lists appeared inside kitchen cabinets and beside Jack's bed. Robby recorded his voice on Jack's phone for moments when he wasn't home. Jack practiced naming the date, the room, and what he could feel beneath his hands. He learned to recognize the warning signs that arrived before panic swallowed the present.

Robby practiced too.

He stopped touching Jack without warning, especially from behind. He learned that asking, "Do you want your husband or a doctor?" could make Jack laugh even on a bad night. When Jack chose his husband, Robby sat beside him without checking his pulse or counting his breaths aloud.

Jack learned to say, "I need both," before pain made the choice for him.

No one asked you to trust him quickly.

For days, you left any room Jack entered. You ate dinner beside Robby while Jack stayed at the other end of the table. You slept in your own bed again only after Robby moved a chair into the hallway and promised Jack would remain downstairs.

Jack kept every promise about distance.

He knocked on rooms that hadn't needed knocking before. He asked before sitting beside you. If a pan clattered, he moved away from you and placed both hands on the nearest solid surface while Robby guided him through the present.

The first time another baking sheet slipped in the drying rack, you ran to the hall before it even fell. Robby found you pressed against the wall with your hands over your ears.

Jack stayed in the kitchen.

"I'm at home," he called from where you couldn't see him. His voice shook, but it remained his. "I'm not coming toward you. Daddy's coming to you."

Robby crouched in front of you. "You did exactly what the plan said."

"Is he scary?"

"He's frightened, but he knows where he is. He's sitting down."

You peeked around Robby's shoulder. Jack was on the floor beside the table, one hand flat on the tile and the other gripping the edge of his shirt. He didn't look at you until you spoke.

"You didn't grab me."

Relief and grief crossed his face together. "No. I didn't."

That wasn't when you forgave him. At six, forgiveness wasn't one choice you could make and finish. It arrived in small pieces that often disappeared again.

It came when Jack packed your lunch and cut the sandwich into stars even though the points tore. It came when he helped with spelling words from the far end of the couch and didn't move closer when you got one wrong. It came when he fell asleep during a movie, and you watched his chest until you were sure his breathing was ordinary. It came the first morning you let him kiss the tips of your fingers instead of your forehead. He asked before every touch, even after you started saying yes more often.

Some days, the prosthesis stayed on until bedtime. Other days, Jack used his crutches or wheelchair without apologizing. He let you see Robby inspect his skin instead of turning away in shame, and Robby asked permission before lifting the liner.

The bruises on your arm faded from purple to yellow. The scrape became a thin pink line near your shoulder. Jack never looked at it without pain tightening his mouth, but he stopped making that pain your responsibility.

Weeks passed before you let him read a bedtime story again.

Jack sat on the rug outside your room while you stayed beneath the blankets. He held the book low enough that you could see his face over the top.

"You skipped a page," you said.

"I was testing you."

"You lost your place."

"Slander."

You giggled before you remembered you were still angry. The sound startled both of you.

Jack smiled carefully and returned to the missed page. He didn't mention that it was the first time you'd laughed with him since the kitchen. When he finished, you reached two fingers beyond the doorway. Jack touched two of his to yours, then left you tucked safely in bed.

The first time you walked to the park together, the sidewalk was still damp from morning rain. Robby stayed home on purpose. He told you that you could turn around at any point, then watched from the porch while Jack settled his forearm crutches and you drew a chalk line at the bottom step.

"That's the starting line," you explained.

Jack looked toward the corner. "Starting what?"

"The walk."

"You don't usually need a starting line for a walk."

"You do if it might turn into a race."

Jack's smile appeared, then faded. "No racing today."

You nodded as if you hadn't hoped otherwise.

For half a block, you matched the rhythm of his crutches. Plant, step, swing. Plant, step, swing. You didn't realize you were doing it until Jack stopped beside a cracked section of sidewalk.

"You don't have to walk like me," he said. Irritation sharpened the edge of his voice. "You can go ahead."

You stopped too. "I'm walking."

"You're waiting for me."

"Daddy says we wait for people."

"Not every second." Jack shifted his weight and looked away. "You used to run to the corner."

"You used to race me."

Pain crossed his face. He turned it into anger before you could understand it. "I can't be that Papa anymore."

"I know!" Your shout startled a bird from the fence. Tears rushed into your eyes. "I don't want old Papa. I want you."

Jack stared at you.

You wiped your nose on your sleeve. "But not scary you. Just you now."

His crutches sank slightly into the wet grass when he moved off the sidewalk and lowered himself until you were closer to the same height.

"Scary me is part of me now," he said carefully. "I'm learning what to do when he tries to take over. You never have to stand close while I do it."

"Is he going to go away?"

Jack looked toward the park instead of lying to you. "I don't know. I think he'll get quieter if I keep working."

You thought about the answer. "Can I still want you if I don't want him?"

Jack's eyes filled. "You can want whatever parts feel safe."

"I want the part that makes rabbit pancakes."

"That's one of my strongest parts."

You held out two fingers instead of your whole hand, leaving him room to balance. Jack looked at them for a long moment before closing two of his around yours.

"We don't have to race," you said.

"Good." He pushed himself upright with a quiet grunt. "Your short legs used to give me an unfair advantage."

"I won three times."

"Unverified."

You reached the park without racing. On the way home, you walked at your own pace. Sometimes that put you several steps ahead, and Jack didn't ask you to slow down. Robby was waiting on the porch when you returned. You climbed the steps first, accepted his kiss against your hair, then turned and held one arm out toward Jack. He joined you carefully. Robby wrapped his free arm around Jack's waist, and for one long moment the three of you stood pressed together beside the shiny rail.

Months later, you discussed Jack's return to the Pitt at the same table where Robby had explained the amputation.

The paper calendar covered nearly half the table. Robby had marked his day shifts in blue. Jack's proposed night shifts were orange. Your school days, therapy appointments, and Saturday swim lessons filled the spaces between them in purple stars.

Jack wore the prosthesis again, though his cane leaned against the table. He'd spent the afternoon walking the route from the staff entrance to the emergency department and back. By dinner, the muscles above his knee trembled whenever he stood.

"Nights make sense," Jack said. He rotated a pencil between his fingers. "Fewer administrators. Different rhythm."

Robby studied him over his glasses. "You also sleep badly at night and feel useful when everyone else is in crisis."

"I knew inviting you into this conversation was a mistake."

"You married the mistake."

Jack's mouth twitched. Then he looked at you. "What do you think?"

"Who's going to be home?"

The pencil stopped moving.

Robby reached for the calendar and turned it toward you. "If Papa takes nights, I'll keep days. He'll come home before you wake up. I'll leave after breakfast, and Papa will be here when you get home from school. I'll be back for dinner and bedtime."

You followed the colors with your finger. "What if Papa's sleeping?"

"I'll sleep while you're at school," Jack said. He tapped the orange boxes. "When you're home, I'll be awake."

"What if his brain gets stuck?" you asked Robby.

Jack's pencil went still again.

Robby didn't tell you not to worry. "Papa hasn't had another episode where he lost the room. His therapist, his rehabilitation team, and both of us think he's ready to try being home with you. We'll keep the safety plan. You can call me at any time."

"Even if you're doing doctor stuff?"

"Even then."

Jack folded both hands around the pencil. "If you aren't ready, I can wait longer. The Pitt will survive without me."

You looked at him. "Do you miss it?"

"Every day."

"More than us?"

"Never more than you." Jack's answer came without hesitation. "Work is somewhere I know how to help. I want to find out if I can still do that."

"When will you see each other?"

"At handoff," Jack said. His eyes met Robby's. "Weekends. Stolen cups of coffee."

Robby placed his hand over Jack's on the table. "And every hour we protect on purpose."

You frowned at the calendar. "It sounds lonely."

"Sometimes it'll be," Robby said. "It also means one of us is here when you need us."

Jack turned his hand beneath Robby's and laced their fingers. "Coming home taught me that being present has to be more than an address. I want to do this right."

You slipped out of your chair and wedged yourself beneath Robby's free arm. He kissed the top of your head while Jack rested a warm hand against your back. You considered both of them. "I get Sundays."

"All of them?" Jack asked.

"Every Sunday unless somebody is dying."

Robby nodded solemnly. "A strict but fair policy."

"No hospital talking at pancakes," you added.

Jack glanced at Robby. "She's drunk with power."

"We created this administration," Robby said. His thumb moved across Jack's knuckles. "We have to live under it."

They built their schedules around that table.

On Jack's first night back, Robby packed his dinner twice. The first container held soup, bread, and apple slices. The second held spare prosthetic liners, skin wipes, medication, and a folded list of numbers Jack already knew.

"Michael," Jack said when he opened the bag. He lifted the emergency supplies. "I'm going to work, not crossing a hostile border."

Robby zipped the bag again. "Humor me."

Jack's expression softened. "That's what I'm doing by not unpacking it."

You sat on the bottom stair in your pajamas, holding the purple safety card. "Are you coming back before breakfast?"

Jack crouched with one hand on the rail. He stayed one step below you so he wouldn't block the stairs. "I'll be here before you wake up. If the night gets long, Daddy will tell you."

"Promise?"

"I promise I'll always tell you the truth about coming home."

It wasn't the promise you'd asked for. Robby had taught him to stop making promises medicine couldn't keep.

You held out two fingers. Jack linked his with yours. Then you leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and his eyes closed around the feeling. He stood and kissed Robby beside the front door.

Their kiss lasted longer than the airport kiss had. Robby checked Jack's face when it ended, and Jack rested his forehead against his.

"Husband or doctor?" Robby asked.

"Husband."

"Then come home safe because I love you."

Jack breathed out. "I love you too."

He came home at seven twelve the next morning, exhausted and carrying terrible vending-machine coffee. You ran from the breakfast table and stopped several feet away, suddenly remembering the kitchen.

Jack noticed the hesitation. He waited.

You crossed the remaining space and wrapped your arms around his waist. He kept both hands where you could see them until you pulled him closer. Then he gathered you against him and kissed your hair, holding on until you were the one who eased back.

"How was work?" you asked into his scrubs.

"Loud, understaffed, and exactly where I needed to be."

Robby stood in the doorway with his work bag over one shoulder. His eyes shone when Jack reached him. He touched your back as he passed, keeping the three of you connected for another moment.

"Welcome back, Dr. Abbot," he said.

Jack kissed him. "Go save daytime, Dr. Robby."

The arrangement was never as neat as the calendar. Emergencies ran late. School events landed between shifts. Jack's prosthesis still hurt, and old memories still followed him home. Some mornings, he removed the leg just inside the front door and crossed the room on crutches because one more step was too much.

He also learned to tell you when he was struggling.

"I'm here," he'd say, pressing his palm to the kitchen table. "My brain's catching up."

When you were little, you followed the safety plan and found Robby. As you grew older, you learned that you could choose to sit nearby without becoming responsible for Jack's recovery. Sometimes you talked about school until his breathing steadied. Sometimes you gave him quiet and let him call Robby.

Robby never stopped coming when either of you needed him. Jack never stopped reminding Robby that love wasn't the same as surveillance.

Their opposite shifts cost them things. They missed going to bed together. They learned to communicate through notes on the refrigerator and half-finished conversations at the Pitt. Their notes ended in cramped hearts, terrible drawings, or instructions for you to hug whichever father was awake. They protected Sunday breakfasts with the intensity of a medical protocol.

They gained things too.

One of them attended every parent conference. One of them sat through every school concert, even when Jack had worked all night, or Robby had spent twelve hours in the emergency department. When you woke from a nightmare about the kitchen, a father was always down the hall.

By the time you were fifteen, most of the Pitts' longtime staff knew the schedule, the marriage, and the daughter who sometimes arrived with a forgotten charger or dinner container. The newest trainees only saw Robby leave as Jack arrived. They mistook the space between shifts for the whole of your fathers' lives.

"You disappeared on us," Robby says.

The emergency department returns around you. Jack is watching from the other side of the desk, his dinner tucked beneath one arm.

"Just remembering," you say. You pull your backpack on again.

Mel glances between the three of you. "How long have you all been a family?"

"Long enough that she used to believe I was funny," Robby says. He reaches for your shoulder.

You step neatly out of range. "I've got no memory of that."

Jack points at you with his dinner container. "See? This is what your parenting has done."

"My parenting?" Robby turns toward him. "You taught her to pick locks."

"One lock. For educational purposes."

Javadi looks at Santos. "How did we miss this?"

Santos watches Robby straighten Jack's collar and shakes her head. "Apparently, we're bad at observation."

"Clinically concerning," Jack says.

Whitaker smiles at you. "So they really work opposite shifts to be home with you?"

You look at your fathers.

Robby's hair is grayer than it was at the airport, and Jack's balance is steadier. The years between then and now live in smaller changes too. Robby waits before reaching for Jack's sore leg. Jack says when he needs help before pain turns the request into surrender. Both of them listen when you say you're afraid without treating fear like ingratitude.

At six, you thought coming home meant nothing frightening could follow through the door. You thought Robby had chosen Jack when he stayed on the kitchen floor, and you thought Jack's open eyes meant he had decided not to know you.

At fifteen, you understand triage, trauma, and the way a brain can mistake memory for the present. Understanding hasn't erased the scar near your shoulder or the hurt of waiting in the dark. It has given the memory somewhere to rest.

Their life has made room for all of it beside chemistry tests, hospital schedules, bad jokes, and Sunday breakfasts.

"They always have," you say.

Whitaker looks from Jack to Robby. "So you barely see each other?"

"We see each other now," Jack says. He lifts the coffee Robby abandoned beside the keyboard and takes a drink from it. His face tightens. "Unfortunately, he still considers this drinkable."

"You brought it," Robby reminds him.

"An error in judgment."

Dana passes behind them with a chart in one hand. "They're unbearable at handoff. You've only just started noticing."

"Thank you, Dana," Robby says.

"Wasn't a compliment."

She keeps walking before Jack can answer. Mel tries to hide a smile and fails.

Jack shifts his weight again. You catch the brief tightening around his eyes.

"You good, Papa?" you ask.

His gaze settles on you. For a second, the emergency department falls away from his expression. Then he taps two fingers against the dinner container, taking inventory of the present.

"Blue scrubs," he says. He looks toward Robby. "Terrible coffee. Nosy trainees."

Robby's expression softens. He doesn't step closer until Jack angles his shoulder toward him. Then Robby places two fingers against the inside of Jack's wrist.

"Your husband," Robby says.

Jack's thumb brushes the back of his hand. "That too."

Robby glances at you. "Your daughter."

Jack smiles. "My daughter."

You move into the open space at Jack's side and slip your hand into his. Robby's arm settles around your shoulders, his other hand still resting against Jack's wrist. Jack leans into both of you without taking his weight off the prosthesis, accepting closeness instead of rescue.

He touches his free hand to his chest, then looks around the department that took him back and the family that taught him how to return.

"I'm home."

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